


Carbon

by meaninglessblah



Series: Prompts & Fills [14]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Crime Scenes, Detective Tim Drake, Gen, Investigations, Reverse Robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27502174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Tim thinks this looks like a murder. Tim thinks the correct term is ‘prematurely decommissioned’. Tim thinks the torn open torso beneath him would turn this cop’s stomach if it were human, properly human. Tim thinks a lot of things.
Series: Prompts & Fills [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987264
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Carbon

**Author's Note:**

> This was an old prompt fill, moved over from Tumblr. The prompt was "Carbon".

Tim crouches amongst the gravel, pauses a moment to take in the translucent gleam of the rocks in the light of a passing train. They still glitter in the darkness that follows, still slick with - Tim wouldn’t hesitate to call it blood, but Tim’s not your average detective - fluid that’s splattered haphazardly over the ground. 

“What do you think?” the beat cop hovering behind him, on the other side of the worn tracks, asks with the sort of curiosity reserved for a particularly interesting game of poker, or a salacious soap opera. Not a body strewn across a railway yard. 

Tim thinks this looks like a murder. Tim thinks the correct term is ‘prematurely decommissioned’. Tim thinks the torn open torso beneath him would turn this cop’s stomach if it were human, properly human. Tim thinks a lot of things. 

He lifts his head, traces the hollow rupture in the boy’s left side, the gape of spilt circuitry and bent ribs. There’s a spray of translucent blood marking the path to where the teen’s arm lies, grip curled around empty air and muscles locked in a mimicry of rigor mortis. Tim looks back down at the android. 

“I think this is the third death of this calibre I’ve seen in a month,” Tim says on a sigh, and shifts on his feet. It’s warm for October, which is just a nice saying local Gothamites have for when the ice hasn’t set in the ground yet. Probably a boon for Tim’s case, if he’s honest. The maintenance worker might not have spotted the body if it was buried under a foot of snow. If he’d missed it before the 925 from Central, Tim’s sure he’d have less in-tact pieces to pick out of the gravel. 

The beat cop shifts, not altogether comfortably, and glances back across the yard to where his cruiser sits, breath fogging in the early morning’s air. “And the costume?” he asks, studying Tim’s expression. 

Yeah, Tim likes that even less than he likes an unclaimed, maimed android body of a teen strewn across a rail yard. The body’s been dressed - before it’d had its skull and sternum caved in, if the diaphanous blood that stains it is anything to go off - in the iconic red and green of Gotham’s youngest protector. Even if Tim was some out-of-town detective called in on a whim and not a long-term resident of Gotham’s murky alleys, the R emblazoned across the teen’s chest is a dead giveaway. 

“Well,” Tim says, swallowing down the wash of distaste and dismay the costume on the teen prompts in him. It’s too easy to imagine the real vigilante, the mangled limbs of a warm-blooded teen cracked beneath a madman’s crowbar. Tim sits back on his heels and schools his expression. “It’s not like he’s the real deal.” 

“‘Spose that’s true,” the beat cop concedes, flinching when Tim reaches a gloved hand forward to brush back the android’s stark black fringe. “Do y’gotta do that? Those eyes are _creepy_.” 

Not the word Tim would have used. Captivating, maybe, for more reasons than one. They’re a deep, intriguing blue that would have looked depthless when lit by the droid’s internal circuitry. Now they look lifeless, as empty as the droid itself. All the more inhuman for it’s trouble. 

It’s not entirely vanity, though. Those eyes - embedded in a clearly fractured eye socket - are captivating for one other reason. 

“Are the memory banks intact?” Tim asks, already reaching over to the teen’s temple to gently nudge his face aside, look into the exposed circuitry for a sign of, well, life. 

“Haven’t had forensics come down to look yet,” the beat cop answers. “You were the first on the scene.” 

“His lenses are damaged,” Tim observes, tracing the wires that run from the back of the droid’s eyes into the compact computer that forms its brain. “But they look intact enough to get a clear image.” 

The beat cop catches on, shuffling forward in his intrigue. “You think it saw its assailant?” 

_Murderer_ , Tim internally corrects, and shifts back to survey the damage, to distract himself from the _boy_ around the machine. “Possibly. Forensics might be able to wind back the tape, give us a lead.” He shoves to his feet with a laboured groan, clenching his hands to work the blood back into them. “You got the model number?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” the beat cop says, and fumbles to his belt for his notepad. “Outdated J450-model. N-class.” 

“And the serial?” 

“Some of the numbers were scraped off, but I got six, se-” 

“I believe you,” Tim interrupts, and shoves his hands into his coat as he takes one last sweeping glance of the scene. If forensics are half-competent, they’ll photograph the positioning for him, so it’s less imperative that he commit it to memory. 

Tim’s gaze shifts back down to the teen at his feet, crumpled and unmoving in its deformed sprawl. If it’s eyes weren’t open, it’s expression not one of taut horror, Tim could almost believe it was a child from the streets, curled up on the leeching heat of the tracks to escape the cold. The thought turns his stomach a little, and Tim’s fingers ache for the comforting warmth of a cup of joe. 

He turns on his heel, flashing the beat cop a thin, tired smile. “Write it up and file it so we can move the body. I’ll look at it again tomorrow; leave your notes on my desk. We’d better clean up the scene so we can get that train running again.” 

The beat cop chuckles, gazing up the length of the tracks, towards the dormant station. “Yeah, doubt Wayne’ll be happy that we held up his train this long.” 

_What’s one unfortunate android butchered on the tracks compared to the inexorable clockwork of the Martha and Thomas Wayne Centralised Railway system?_ Tim thinks bitterly. 

“Wouldn’t want anyone to miss their ride home,” Tim says, with a touch more ice than he intends. He can’t help wondering who the android won’t be going home to tonight, whether its programming aches with the need to return to its owner. Whether it feels failure like Tim does, whether it felt concern, felt scared. Whether it’ll be missed, be mourned. 

His shoes crunch across the chilled gravel, the body fading into his peripheral as he approaches and passes the beat cop. 

“Run the serial back to Wayne Enterprises and pull the manufacturing diagnostics,” Tim instructs, glancing up at the night sky. There are clouds gathering, promising a storm. Tim wonders when it’ll break. “Clean up the scene; we don’t want the public confusing this decoy with their Boy Wonder.” 

“Yes, sir,” the beat cop says with a curt nod, and Tim starts the long trudge back to his car. “Sir?” 

“Hmm?” 

“You think this is another of… _his_ ones?” 

Tim blinks at the pinched concern on the man’s brow beneath his cap. Lets his gaze wander down to the carved grimace of a smile on the android, the touch of desperation in its empty eyes. The hollow echo of a madman’s laughter painted on its dead lips. 

He swallows, tastes the chalk of white paint on the back of his tongue, and turns away from the beat cop. “Sure hope not,” Tim mutters. 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
